Resurrection
by Master Of All Imagination
Summary: M is dead. Now, the last person standing in the way of Silva's revenge is Bond himself. Post-Skyfall, technically AU because Silva survives Bond's knife. Eventual 00Silva.
1. Prologue

Bond carried M out of the old chapel in his arms.

"What do we do about the body?" Kincade asked. Bond knew he didn't mean M.

"Leave him," he said curtly.

Kincade followed Bond out onto the dark moor, staring over his shoulder at the knife protruding out of Silva's back. Bond did not turn.

Four people had entered the church that night.

Three had come out.

Two had been killed.

Only one was dead.

* * *

The pain was so much that he considered staying there and dying, bleeding out on the floor of that god-forsaken chapel in ignominy. But then Bond's face swam up before him. If he tilted his head upwards he could almost see him standing at the door again.

_Last rat standing_.

No. It wouldn't end this way. _He _would be the last rat. _He _would kill Bond. He would kill Bond for taking M away when he finally had her in his grasp, and he would kill Bond for trying to kill him. A life for a life. Poetic. Justified. Bond would die for taking away his revenge.

He had felt worse pain before, but not by much. It was only with a supreme effort of will and the image of Bond's face- burned into his mind and spurring him on almost mockingly- that he managed to raise himself up off the floor.

The knife grated against the bones in his back. Silva gritted his teeth, lips pulling back in a skull-like grimace. His sight reeled for a moment with the pain. Slowly, torturously, every muscle in his body screaming, he reached back with his right hand for the knife. When he felt the hilt, he _pulled_.

_That _was possibly the worst pain in his life. The knife swam in his vision as he brought it in front of his eyes, blurred by tears. Whether the tears were born of pain or sorrow was unknown to Silva. At that moment he did not care.

Jerking, staggering steps brought him to his feet. He'd done the worst part already; now standing seemed inconsequential. He balanced himself against a pew and stood for a moment, panting. Eyes fixed on the door, he walked out, knife in hand.

He had a new target.

_Bond._

**A/N: I don't have much of this fic written yet, but it is a start. I intend this as a dark continuation of Skyfall in which ****Silva is torn between his illogical need for closure against M in the form of Bond's death and his own growing fascination with the agent himself. This won't be fluffy. I will be trying my damnedest to keep them in character. The aim is to portray their relationship as canonically as I can. Also, no guarantees on a steady update schedule, because SCHOOL. :( Posting from both tumblr and , if anyone's interested in seeing it on tumblr send me a PM, I'm too lazy to link my account right now. First chapter should be coming soon; stay tuned!**


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Oh hey look its chapter one… Disclaimer: I know jack shit about London's geography, and I have no idea if MI6 HQ is still in those tunnels because I can't for the life of me remember. :/ So I just thought "what the hell" and rolled with it. Also, let me know what you guys think about the amount of levity. This is gonna get dark later, so I figure it might be justified. A vein of humor does run through Skyfall what with all the one-liners and Bond's own personality, but it's not something I'm looking to emphasize, so any comments to help me gauge would be appreciated. And… ummm… too much drama? What do you think? Really, any feedback at all would be great.**

_He was drowning in a river- shot from a train by Eve. He was being sucked down to the bottom, slowly, but he never hit the sand. Instead a skull's mouth opened up beneath him and swallowed him. Far off, Silva screamed. _

_Bond burned._

Bond's eyes opened. He was on his stomach, tangled in sweaty sheets. The room was swelteringly hot. The air conditioner had failed sometime in the night. Not bothering to waste his breath with a curse, he disentangled himself and padded out of the bedroom in his boxers.

Bond had gotten a new flat after his return from Scotland. It was modern, lavish, and paid for entirely by the British government. It was also the second time that week its air conditioning had failed.

_Really need to talk to someone about that,_ Bond reminded himself.

Crossing to the liquor cabinet, Bond took down a bottle of vodka and poured out a measure. It was halfway to his lips before he stopped and set it down again. Bad dreams weren't worth a drink. He carefully poured it back into the bottle. After all, it wouldn't do to waste good vodka.

Almost as an afterthought he checked his watch. The dim lights of the city illuminated it barely enough for him to gather that it was 3:30 in the morning. Briefly, Bond contemplated going back to sleep, but he knew he wouldn't get a satisfactory night's rest with the air-conditioning out.

A sudden sense of impending inactivity assailed him. Determined to do anything to avert the boredom that would inevitably follow, Bond threw on a cotton button-up shirt and grey slacks and left the flat.

Unbeknownst to him, the air conditioning kicked back in while he was in the elevator.

In the marble-and-gilt lobby he hailed the concierge.

"Air conditioning's malfunctioning in 7B again," he informed the slightly drowsy young man.

"Again?" he asked, slightly surprised, but not at the nocturnal visit. After seven months of Bond's residence, he was mostly familiar with the agent's comings and goings at all hours of the day and night. "I had maintenance look at it two days ago; they said it was fine."

"Are you employing _blind_ repairmen?" Bond asked lightly

"Ahah, no, sir, Mr. Bond," the concierge laughed. "I'll send them down again first thing in the morning."

"Thanks."

"Will you be wanting your keys tonight, Mr. Bond?" the concierge asked politely. Bond smiled. The boy knew him too well.

"The Aston, if you don't mind."

"I'll have someone bring it around."

"Don't bother; I'd rather do it myself."

"As you wish."

With a jingle, the keys were handed over.

A doorman held the door for Bond as he walked out into a quasi-dark London. Taxis sped past. Ubiquitous streetlamps blotted out the stars. Even at that hour, a few pedestrians wandered the sidewalks. Bond stuffed his hands in his pockets and began to walk towards his flat's dedicated parking garage. Late night drives in his Aston around London were becoming a thing of his.

The machine started up with a silent purr, felt more in vibrations than heard in sound, putting a smile on Bond's face as he drove smoothly out onto London's streets.

No matter where he traveled, or how far or how long, London was always the place he came home to. London was the one place he could rest, and feel at ease. London and her lights were the only remedy for nights like these when his nightmares came back.

Ever since Skyfall, they'd cropped up like wraiths in his sleep. He could never predict when. Sometimes it would be a week between the dreams; sometimes days; and once a whole month had elapsed. But they hadn't gone away, and with each reoccurrence Bond was becoming more and more unsettled.

Old words rang in his mind.

_She sent you after me, knowing you're not ready…_

_Knowing you're not ready…_

That blonde cyber terrorist was another thing that haunted him. For the first time that night he had entered Bond's nightmare. Very rarely, if ever, did those Bond killed enter his dreams. He'd never get any sleep otherwise.

His thoughts skipped around unpredictably for a moment, subconsciously avoiding Silva and his own doubts about whether he would ever fully recover from Eve's bullet. The debriefing after Skyfall entered his mind. He remembered the conversation with Mallory- or, he supposed, the new M- quite clearly. Mallory had asked him right off the bat if he was sure he'd killed Silva.

"Yes," Bond had affirmed simply. They'd asked no more questions about him after that, and it was simply assumed that one of Silva's cronies must have survived and done away with the body. And there the matter had rested.

Bond had no reason to be uneasy over it, yet he had dreamed of Silva, and that dream had disturbed him. Bond was not a man with whom disturbance sat easily.

He ached for activity. He ached for a mission. He ached for a target and a gun and a trigger to pull. Life was at its simplest then. Could he not simply walk into HQ and beg a mission from M?

No. He would not beg for it. He knew why the missions had been few and far between since Skyfall.

_Knowing you're not ready…_

A slight vibration hummed against his leg. He dug in his pants pocket and drew out his phone. A glance was all he needed to tell him it was MI6. He grinned slightly, only the smallest twist of his mouth showing. Perhaps his boredom was at an end after all.

Bond executed a swift U-turn and headed for Churchill's tunnels. Officially, once their old HQ had been patched up after Silva's explosion, they'd moved back in. Unofficially, the tunnels were just too good of a location and too advantageous a situation to pass up. MI6 now operated out of the tunnels, their old building relegated to a mere front.

Bond left his Aston out on the street in front of the tunnels' entrance, pocketing the keys and tossing a nod to the guard at the door before stepping inside and walking briskly into the depths of the bunker.

Mallory met him just inside the door. He'd obviously been waiting for him. They made their way over the walk-around overlooking the white, wide open operations room below where people worked industriously despite the hour. MI6 never truly slept.

"Did you park outside?" M asked curtly. Bond kept his expression neutral.

"Yes."

"How many times do I have to tell you it's too suspicious for the same car, driven by the same man, to regularly arrive at HQ? Do I have to make it an order?"

"Probably."

"Fine." Mallory took a deep breath, reminding himself that it was _Bond_ he was dealing with, after all, and frustration was to be expected. "Bond, from now on you will park your Aston at least six blocks away from HQ at all times."

When Bond seemed just a bit too pleased with the verdict, Mallory hastily closed his loophole, amending, "And that goes for _any _car you show up in."

"Yes sir," Bond said flatly. "I believe there was business you called me here on?"

"Ah- of course," Mallory said, annoyed at how easily Bond had managed to take the upper hand in their conversation. "Come with me; Q's just got something new in from Mongolia. The situation there has become somewhat unbalanced."

Bond mulled this news over in his mind. He'd been keeping independent tabs on the Mongolian situation for a few months, wondering all the while when MI6 would stop tiptoeing around and finally send him in to clean up the mess. It was happening sooner rather than later.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"Local newspapers published a story in the early morning implicating our government contact in some kind of money laundering scheme. Something to do with financing a brothel. Very messy, very inconvenient, and very much falsified. Someone's onto our operations there, and we need to find out who."

"Don't we have an agent undercover in Erdenet?"

"Yes, but she's been out of contact for three days."

"Sounds complicated."

"Very."

They lapsed into silence as they fell into step. Since the old M's death, Gareth Mallory had settled in nicely- even taking on the initial. Relatively speaking, MI6 was back to its normal self. The idea of Eve sitting a desk job had taken some getting used to, but secretly Bond supported her decision. Field work was not for everyone, after all. The new Q had taken some getting used to as well, but youth had in this case had shown competence, and often brilliance.

What it had not shown, however, was any discernible sense of fashion.

When they entered the room that functioned as Q Division's main headquarters, the man in question was wearing a hideous mauve jumper that Bond simply could not pass up the chance to comment upon.

"Is your mother still dressing you, Q?"

"At least I have a mother, Bond."

Bond hissed in a breath, acting as though offended. "Ooohh, touché." It was their equivalent of "good morning."

"Boys," Mallory warned. "The Mongolian situation, if you will?"

"Right, M," Q said, turning back to his work. The large view screens of the room, normally displaying shifting matrices of code, dissolved and reformed themselves into a map. Aerial surveillance pictures and satellite images composited themselves to form a birds-eye view of Erdenet, Mongolia.

"As you probably already know," Q began, reiterating for Bond's benefit, "Two hours ago, at 9:30 local time, newspapers hit the stands bearing stories of Akhbor Mami, our contact in the government, implicating him in an obviously fake scandal. He was seized by authorities and is being detained for questioning. When we tried to contact our agent in the area to gather more intel, we received no response. We believe she has been compromised and forced into hiding."

Bond studied the screen, which was now flicking between pictures of narrow streets and dossiers on Mami and the agent in question.

"Is this to be an extraction, then?" Bond asked.

"Not quite. We need you to do the recon that the agent couldn't. M is convinced that there's a rival faction in the midst mucking things up." That would explain why M had called Bond in; if it had been a simple recon-and-extraction MI6 could have easily employed any old field agent.

"And what do you think, Q?" Bond asked, sensing that Q didn't share M's convictions.

Q glanced hesitantly at his boss, but M's face was passive. "Well," he began carefully, "let me show you." His fingers went to work, flying across the keyboard. "I came across something interesting yesterday that- oh no," Q broke off.

"What is it?" Mallory asked, pushing himself off of the wall he leaned against. Q's brows had contracted. He bent his head to his terminal and typed, if it was possible, even faster.

"Not again," he muttered.

In front of their eyes, the screen was changing. And not only the main monitor. Every terminal in the room- and probably every terminal in the whole complex- was going black, pixel by pixel.

When nothing remained but a dark screen, a lonely blinking white cursor appeared in the middle, arresting all of their attention. Q's fingers had fallen silent as all his efforts to abort the computer override were thwarted.

The cursor continued blinking for a moment, like a conductor tapping his baton to ensure he had his orchestra's attention. White letters then began to slowly blink into existence against the black, typed by some unseen hand. When the cursor stopped after typing out three words, a tech swore into the silence.

Across every monitor in MI6 was displayed the words _LAST RAT STANDING_.

The cursor shuddered, and as if it were only an afterthought, coughed out one last character. A question mark joined the words, making the sentence complete.

As suddenly as it had happened the pixels began to drain away again, returning the dossiers and maps to the screens they had formerly occupied.

The stunned silence persisted only a moment before M barked,

"What are you standing around for? Track that! Find out who sent it! I want to know _how _someone has penetrated one of the best security networks in the world, as if it weren't there, for the second time in a _year_!"

Q began typing again, but there was a restrained air to it, as though he knew his task was futile. He seemed to take the slight on his systems management in stride, because he knew what no one in the room had dared speak aloud so far. He'd wager that even Mallory knew it, standing fuming as he was.

"I think we already know who did it, M," Bond said lowly. The room breathed a collective sigh of relief as Bond spoke. If the famous 00 could say it, perhaps that meant they weren't crazy after all.

"He's _dead_," Mallory said slowly, as patiently as explaining to a child why the sky is blue. "From your lips, he is dead."

Bond thought about his dream, and stayed quiet.

"It cannot be anyone else," Q piped up, hardly believing the words were coming out of his mouth. Mallory rounded on him.

"Explain."

"Well, how many people on earth know how to break my- ahem, _our_ security firewalls? I can count them on my fingers."

"How do we know it wasn't one of them, then?"

"Because _last rat standing_ is what I said to him just before he died," Bond put in. It was Mallory's turn to go quiet.

"We have a problem, then," he said. "A serious, serious problem."

"Not technically," Bond pointed out. "By his standards, hacking our security is just a tease. He hasn't done anything detrimental-"

"_Yet_," Mallory interrupted, "He hasn't done anything detrimental _yet_." He turned to one of the aides that had been hovering somewhere in his vicinity, put on high alert by the computers' eerie message. "I want Silva to become our number one priority. Find out where he is, what he's doing, what he wants…" he whirled around and addressed the rest of his orders to Bond. "And you. I want you to do your job properly this time. Find Silva and make use of your license to kill."

"And the Mongolian situation?"

"Someone else can handle that. Anyone. It's not your concern anymore."

"Yes, sir," Bond said. He could almost feel the trigger of a gun as he said the words. Nevermind _how _Silva had survived a knife thrown straight into his back. Nevermind if he was the devil himself reincarnate, invincible and undefeatable. Bond would kill him if it took silver bullets. Because that was his job. He was 007. And he always finished what he started.


	3. Chapter 2

Bond did not return to his flat that night. MI6 had become a bustling hive of movement as agents flowed in and out, delivering news, carrying reports, and being busy in general. Bond hung around, observing all but touching nothing, to use a metaphoric phrase, letting all the hustle pass him by. So far detached was he from what was going on around him that Q had to call his name twice before he turned around and paid attention.

Q was giving him an odd look, like the one that an adult might give an inattentive child. Bond schooled his features into their usual passive normalcy and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yes?" he asked. "Did you need something?"

"As a matter of fact, I've _found _something," Q said, turning towards the monitor. Bond raised his gaze to match. "Though I'm not sure _found_ is quite the right word to use." Q obviously wanted to play the question game, but Bond was not in the mood. He remained silent until Q huffed, gave in, and elaborated.

"I've discovered a trail of breadcrumbs."

"Silva?" Bond guessed immediately.

"Undoubtedly. Cleverly embedded into the code he used to hack our network. At first glance, that is. This just isn't up to his usual scratch, it's too simple, too obvious."

"A plant?"

"Exactly. Like what we did in the subway."

"Then why make it so obvious?"

"Did my use of the term 'breadcrumbs' sound metaphorical to you?" Q asked, exacerbated. A tone quite uncalled for, in Bond's opinion. "Because it wasn't," Q continued. "He _wants_ us to find him."

"In that case, where do these breadcrumbs lead?" Bond asked. He realized, belatedly, that Q had roped him into the question-game regardless.

"Ah- I will let you know when I know," Q said. Bond exhaled shortly. "What?" Q demanded, suddenly defensive. "They may be obvious, but they're no less difficult to decode."

Mallory entered the room as Q was finishing his sentence. Obviously having just come from his office, Mallory temporarily tried to juggle a coffee and an armful of paper work, gave up, shifted the paperwork onto an overworked aide, and took a sip of the coffee.

Q turned back to his laptop and began muttering as he worked, eyebrows high on his brow in a contemplative position. "Why?" he asked himself. "Why hack into our system untraceably and then leave breadcrumbs behind?"

Mallory overheard, and snorted. "You're pretty good with the computers, kid, but you've still got a lot to learn about field work. This could be any number of things. A mislead. A distraction. Whatever he's playing at, he's smart enough to know we won't take it at face value."

Bond uncrossed his arms and suddenly approached Q.

"Breadcrumbs, you said?"

"Breadcrumbs," Q repeated.

"Mm-mm," Bond replied. He paused for a second, asking his next question like a professor posing some new point of philosophical debate to his students.

"Do you know where cheese normally leads?"

Q's mind worked quickly, but Bond caught Mallory's eye and immediately knew that _he_ knew exactly where he was going with this. That was why he was M, after all.

"A mouse trap," Q said slowly. "Except in this case a 'rat' trap?" Q was warming to his theme.

"Precisely."

"And I assume you'll be going in regardless?"

"Precisely."

"Bond, a word?" Mallory interjected. Bond nodded curtly and followed M to his office.

Mallory sat himself comfortably behind his desk, the desk which had once been M's. It didn't look quite the same without that ridiculous bulldog of hers. His thoughts drifted to the object in question, still in the box Eve had presented it to him in, stuffed in the back of a shelf somewhere in his apartment. He was glad he wouldn't have it looking at him anymore.

"First of all, you don't go _anywhere_ without my say-so," Mallory began.

_Wonderful, a dressing-down_, Bond thought to himself. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Mallory had not quite mastered the tactic of inducing guilt as completely as M had- that is to say, M had once been able to make him feel nigglings of insecurity about his actions, whereas the most Mallory could do was annoy him into attempting to rectify whatever "mistakes" Bond had recently committed.

"Second of all, I want you on a plane to wherever Q tells us you need to go as soon as he knows," Mallory continued.

Bond, just settling in for a rant, moved slightly at Mallory's about-face. His expression must have betrayed his surprise, because Mallory nodded knowingly, shuffling some papers on his desk.

"Let's face facts here, Bond," he said. "We both know that things haven't been the same… since M died," Mallory said, choosing his words carefully. Bond stiffened, and would have rather avoided having this conversation at all costs. There were a hundred other ways Mallory could have framed that sentence: _since you were shot_ was one that Bond had particularly dreaded. He fancied the unspoken words hung in the air, tainting it sour.

His fancy was not far off the mark, because Mallory cleared his throat uneasily and shuffled more papers.

_Good,_ Bond thought. _I'm making him uncomfortable_.

"Nevertheless," Mallory plowed on bravely, "MI6 can't afford to have its best 00 out of the field indefinitely, and _I_ can't afford to tiptoe around you anymore."

"Is that what you've been doing?" Bond cut in acerbically. Mallory's eyes flicked up to meet Bond's steely gaze.

"Yes," he said flintily. "And that's why I'm sending you after Silva. I still can't believe the man is alive-"

"Not for lack of effort," Bond felt the need to add.

"Of course," Mallory acknowledged. "Once Silva is out of the picture, I'm hoping it will afford _you_ some closure," he said frankly.

"Sir," Bond objected. "I don't need closure."

"I beg to differ. And so does Eve."

Bond paused. "You've been talking to her?"

"She's been talking to me," Mallory said, carefully rephrasing the question to shift whatever animosity Bond bore away from himself. "She knows you've changed."

Bond was a close to squirming as he ever allowed himself to be. This kind of "emotional" conversation never sat well with him.

"Next time you two have a conversation I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me out of it," Bond said evenly, biting back venom. "Will that be all?"

"No, that will very well bloody not be all," Mallory snapped suddenly. His careful hold of his temper had slipped for a moment. His left hand clenched the edge of the desk briefly, then flew to a ceramic mug of pencils. Eventually, it stilled, coming to rest back on top of the desk. His mask was back in place.

"I need you on this job as much as you need to be," Mallory said, "But it's still my duty to make sure it gets carried out properly."

"You're asking me if I'm up to it?" Bond queried, half-unbelieving. He knew that Mallory had had his doubts about him in the past, but this lack of confidence was frankly insulting. Another voice, deeper and accented, echoed in his mind.

_Knowing you're not ready…_

"Are you?" Mallory asked honestly, his face open.

"I'm ready."

"Then I believe you," said Mallory, rising from his desk. "And I'm going to give you carte blanche on this one. I hope…" Mallory trailed off. Bond sensed he withheld his words out of discretion.

"You hope?" he prompted. Damn the man and his inhibitions; discretion had no place in MI6.

"I hope I won't have cause to regret it," Mallory finished, a hard note in his tone.

Bond simply told him he was ready again, and then, as Mallory didn't withhold him, he left.

**A/N: I'm sorry this is so short, I've decided to split up this chapter because honestly, I don't have the rest written. :/ So much for writing over Christmas break... well, let's hope school doesn't get too crazy and prevent me from getting my ass in gear, eh? And a big hug to everyone who reviewed and followed; each time made me smile and I feel like I'm letting you guys down if I don't post promptly. Consider yourselves my motivation! **


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